In Need of a Miracle
by Smiling Melancholy
Summary: Tavros hides his insecurities with his dreams. Gamzee hides his problems with his drugs. They're both in need of a miracle. HumanStuck.
1. Chapter 1

**1**

His name was Tavros. He wore a metaphorical mask. With a painted on smile and a happy glaze over his honey gold eyes, he would look, well, happy to any random stranger. They wouldn't know of the constant bullying or his own insecurities or the dark cloud that seemed to hang over his head every day and every night. They wouldn't be aware of those lingering, cruel memories that haunted his dreams. He hid his sadness well, burying it well beyond any normal person's sight. They wouldn't know how he hated how he couldn't walk like any normal person, how he was imprisoned in this handicapped body, confined to wheelchair. They wouldn't know he dreamed of flying, of being free.

If you asked anyone who did know him, they'd probably say he was very joyful and happy, considering the circumstances. That he had enough optimism for the whole world and was very child-like and innocent.

Perhaps he could have been, but that's just what he allowed them to think. That he was happy because he didn't want them to worry. He would feel selfish otherwise; maybe before they hadn't believed him, asking time and time again if he was _really_ alright. But he would just nod and slap on a naïve grin on his face and they would leave him alone.

He really hated pity. He hated the looks they gave him of sympathy. It made him feel weaker than he already was. He knew he was weak, he knew he was sensitive and a mistake. An accident, he was one big accident. His tormentors would rather die than let him forget.

His was an actor. Inside, he was depressed and sad. Deep inside, he would not smile. He had lost hope for a happily ever after a long time ago. He felt he was useless and worthless, just something people would use and throw away. Though his friends would try and convince him otherwise, but he knew that they were lying. They probably were just trying to make him feel better. He wasn't good for anything.

Maybe, someone would say, he needed… what was that again?

Oh yes, perhaps someone would say he needed a miracle.

And sometimes miracles come in strange, clown faced packages.

...

The first time Tavros saw the tall, strange, boy was when he was sitting, slumped over in the old leather seats of his dad's car, staring distantly out the dusty window and watching the rain drops race down the glass. His finger traced crude drawing on the foggy window, Tavros knew his dad hated it when he did that because it left an imprint, but he liked to do it anyways. Besides, his dad had been taking a long time, much longer than needed to go and get some milk from the grocery store. He on the other hand had decided to stay in the car, because he didn't want to get stared at again. It always happened and he hated it.

While Tavros was gazing out the window, his amber eyes wandered towards an alleyway between the grocery store and a hair salon. And then he saw him standing there, leaning against the brick wall of the alleyway. The other man had long messy dark hair that went down past his chin and curtained his eyes, long sagging dark purple polka-dot pajama pants and was being swallowed up in a dark black shirt that seemed two sizes too big for his thin lanky frame. Clown makeup masked his face, painted ghost white except for the dark circles around his eyes and lips. Tavros could see some of the other boy's eyes, which had adopted a distant expression and seemed a blue violet color. His lips were curled into a lackadaisical smile, and Tavros decided he was probably the oddest person you had ever seen in his life.

But… also the most interesting.

The boy took a long drag of his cigarette, smoke snaking into the crisp autumn air. The boy sluggishly turned his head, leaning it against the wall. His mouth gaped open a little, not seeming totally here. But then he caught sight of Tavros staring, and his mouth stretched into a catlike grin, eyes suddenly becoming alert, the violet color deepening. He stared at Tavros with a strange look in his eye. Tavros blushed, his face burning from being caught. He took note that it wasn't like the other stares he received, the pitiful or judgmental stares. It was a kinder stare. They kind of just stayed that way for some minutes, just staring; until the man adopted the distant expression again and gave a wink.

Tavros's face reddened even more; and he turned away shyly. He could still feel the other man's gaze burning in the back of his head. He ran a hand through his messy chocolate brown Mohawk. He sighed and rested his head on his hands.

The door opened and slammed shut, awakening his from his thoughts. His dad sighed, a sad look in his eye. But this was usual for his dad. He never seemed to look happy to Tavros. Turning towards his son, he sent a tired smile and revved the engine.

Tavros risked a last glance at the stranger, to see him staring right back.

...

His motherfucking name was Gamzee. He hid behind a real mask. Clown makeup that had grown into a second skin, he felt vulnerable without it. He hid behind a dopey smile and lidded, distant eyes. Behind his odd honks and too often laughs; he acted happy, careless. He even hid from himself.

Instead of dreaming about a better ending, he acted it. Drugs were his escape; he pretended he wasn't who he really was- inside burned a deep hatred for everything that walked the planet, and a stabbing sadness that he wasn't ever going to be _anything_. He acted like he really was the happy-go-lucky motherfucker who replaced him under the influence of marijuana, because he liked not knowing anything, he liked being amazed by the stupidest things, he liked being the ignorant, stupid, rash person people thought he was. But in reality, he was a monster. He was a pest, an annoyance, obnoxious, he got in the way, he dragged people down, and he clung to them and didn't let them get back up. Like with Karkat, his "best friend". He was sure that he hated him secretly. It sure seemed like it, with his constant insults. In a stoned stupor he didn't care, but the words haunted him when he ran out of his stash.

Why was he even alive.

He needed a reason.

No-

He needed a miracle.

...

The cold waves lapped at his bare toes, despite the crisp temperatures all he wore was a thin hoodie and his long polka dot pajama pants. His clothes hung loose on his lanky frame, pale arms hosting goose bumps and the frustration and depression drawing his thin lips into a straight, apathetic line. The cold wrapped around him like a blanket as he sat stiffly on the craggy beach, staring blankly into the sky. The sun spilled warm, vibrant hues of oranges, yellows, reds and indigos into the calm waves, reflecting the sunset into the waters. Maybe on other days he would have thought it beautiful, maybe even miraculous. But today he kept staring into the distance, waiting, watching.

Waiting for something that wouldn't come, watching for something that would never be seen; this wasn't the first time he had done this. Sometimes he stayed out until his body ached from being in the same position pressed against the rough boulders sitting on the shore, frozen in place both literally and figuratively, desperate indigo eyes darting around the dark horizon, wondering why he hadn't come home. He would sit there until his short, angry neighbor slash reluctant best friend would run out onto the beach and drag him away, muttering obscenities and telling him how idiotic it was to wait in the cold, and especially out so late, with a genuine look of worry on his face. He would take him home and shove a hot drink in his hand and sit him in front of the fire place, and when the situation finally hit the sad boy, he would cry until his tears ran dry and his best friend would sigh and comfort him and tell him it would be alright. Those were the only time his friend really seemed to care about him. Sometimes he felt he was just an annoyance, like he was the gum stuck to everyone's shoe. Maybe even is dad's.

Maybe that's why he never came home.

He was a disappointment, everything you'd never want in a kid wrapped into a stupidly wrapped package. His dad was ashamed of him. When he left for work on that ferry, he sometimes didn't return. When he did, it was late at night when he though his son was asleep and not waiting in a pile of blankets, waiting to hear his dad come home. And he would leave early in the morning, before the sun had even come up, so he wouldn't have to face the disappointment he had made.

A tear slid down his slim face, he would never amount to anything.

Usually he drowned his sorrows in drugs, to pretend life was a wonderful thing full of miracles, faking euphoria to try and bury his problems, shrugging on a dopey smile and lidded, carless eyes to act as if he didn't have a care in the world. The façade fooled all but his reluctant best friend. They all thought of him some useless waste of space without feelings or a brain. But when he got sober, he grew tired and depressed, and at the most desperate cases, angry.

Incredibly angry.

Angry at the world, angry at his father, angry at his classmates, angry at his life, angry at himself; he would destroy anything in sight, going as far as hurting others until his angry best friend would calm him down and drag him away.

He didn't like being angry.

It just… happened.

His buried his face in his pale hands, clown makeup smearing onto his fingers. He was such a motherfucking fuck up.

His father wasn't coming home.

He would wait here on the wet sand until it went dark.

And nothing would have come from it.

Then, he remembered the boy.

He wasn't sure where the picture came from, of the adorable little motherfucker he had seen sitting in the shotgun seat of an old pickup truck, staring dreamily out the window with a tired smile on his tan face. With the large, amber moon eyes and the shaggy brown Mohawk. Whose face turned a nice shade of red when he was caught staring at yours truly. But Gamzee was used to the stares he got from strangers. Most were judgmental; disgusted even, when they took in his bedraggled appearance with his clown makeup and messy, wild curls that fell down his head, his stupid smile. But this boy had seemed, curious, for lack of a better term.

It almost made him smile.

_Hrgh ;u; I don't even know if I got the characters right but I just needed to write this it's been dragging down on me for a while now… so I hope they aren't to OC and that you liked it._


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

When he had first been told they were moving to rainy-day Washington the fact that he would have to start over, to be that loner paraplegic with a stutter all over again, it hadn't really sink in until he was staring at the large peeling green doors of his new school with people flooding in all around him and completely ignoring the small boy in the wheelchair. Inside he panicked.

How was he even supposed to get inside? He couldn't even move without rolling over someone's foot or bumping into them and being gifted the dirtiest of looks. He just looked around frantically, nervously running his fingers through his messy Mohawk. And then suddenly he was moving. He turned around to be met with the childish grin of a girl even shorter than what he would have been if he hadn't lost his legs. She had an oval, youthful fair face and large, curious green eyes. She wore a blue cat hat that covered her mess of short, brown hair. "Geeze, these people could really some manners, huh?" She asked cheerfully, pushing him through the doors and into the halls, her voice high but not unpleasant.

"Uh… y-yeah, I guess so." He replied softly, offering a hesitant smile back. He wasn't about to tell her he really hated being pushed around by strangers, it could end maybe the only opportunity he had to make a friend.

She giggled, "I haven't seen you around befur," She commented, "Are you new around here?" She asked, as she rolled them through the halls.

"Y-yeah…" He murmured, "Um, I'm locker 410, by the way." He said, wondering if she had any idea where they were going.

"Oh really?!" She exclaimed, "That's right next to mine! I'm 411. What a coinky-dink! Well since you're going to be my locker buddy, can I get your name?" She asked, face full of glee, large green eyes shining.

"T-Tavros," He said, smile becoming more wide. This wasn't that hard. She seemed really nice, and though it was pretty obvious she wasn't the most liked around here, with the strange looks given by strangers, he didn't really care- he could relate.

"That name is purrety cool! I'm Nepeta, Nepeta Leijon. Usually my best furrend is here with me but he's purrety sick right now. Maybe later you'll meet him! People don't really like him because he acts all tough and stuff but he's not that bad! Oh look, we're here. Hey Tavros, what're your classes?" She rambles, stopping them at the lockers. He looks at his schedule.

She's looking at him expectantly, that soft smile still on her face. He turned his head, turning the lock and repeating the melody of his locker combination. He handed her his schedule so she could see the classes, he didn't really feel like listing them.

She read over it, green eyes lighting up, "Oh, I have three classes with you! Art, History and Biology! I heard Mr. English is a real hoot to have." She grinned toothily, "At lunch you should sit with me and my furrends! They'll probably love you! I mean some of them are kind of scary, like Vwriskers, but they have a good side to them!"

"V-Vwriskers?" Tavros asked nervously, hoping she wasn't talking about who he thought she was talking about.

"Vriska Serket. A lot of people here are afraid of her, but I don't see why, I mean, I guess… she is kind of scary… but she can't be that bad?" Nepeta seemed unsure when saying this, opening her own locker and taking out some folders.

Tavros froze- what? He thought he had left her back in Arizona. He didn't really want to see her ever again. It didn't matter how many _empty_ apologies she wrote to him that he never read, how many times she _tried_ to talk to him and mend their broken friendship, it didn't matter how he couldn't _hate_ her, no matter how much he tried, no matter how much he knew he had the right to, he couldn't forgive her. She had done something too great. She had made him even more useless than he already was.

The skinny, all angles girl with wild, dark hair, a pointy nose, and narrow cerulean blue eyes full of mischief and sadistic amusement. The girl who told him she wanted to make him stronger. The girl who couldn't decide whether she loved her hated him; the girl who lied- who _acted_ as if she _cared_, like no one else did- the girl who told him to _trust_ her.

He had trusted her. He had followed her out onto the rocky, crumbling cliff overlooking the rushing currents of the river. She asked him if he really wanted to fly.

He said yes.

She grabbed his shoulders, grinning a maniac grin, eyes too sharp, smile too knowing, he had wanted to get away, but her wiry arms kept him in place. She told him she'd make his wish come true.

And then he was falling. It was a terrible feeling, it happened too fast, but too slow. He had landed with a sickening crack, his red blood painting the rocky canvas, legs twisted, body broken, eyes wide and terrified, staring at the girl he thought he could trust.

Her expression had contorted into something almost regretful, surprised, as if it was possible not to expect this outcome. She had run as far as she could. Some hikers had found him. He had spent days, weeks, sitting in that uncomfortable hospital bed with the thin mattress, watching the red tulips in his room wilt, wanting to pop that stupid cerulean balloon that reminded him too much of her sharp, knowing eyes- the helium balloon that floated up to the ceiling tiles, pushing for an escape. He remembered the window too far away from his bed, with the stupid white curtains the same color as the rest of the room. All white. It was blinding and frustrating. He had only survived because of his dreams.

He remembered when _she_ came. She stared at the damage she had done, the mess she had caused. At his lack of legs and his broken expression, at the betrayal and questions swimming in his amber eyes and she pushed away the guilt and just twisted a smirk onto her thin lips.

His expression had hardened and he looked at the balloon again, giving it an empty gaze.

She had promptly left.

Back in the present, he had gone eerily silent, staring hard at his locker, his recollection of memories lasting only a few seconds, but a long enough amount for Nepeta to gaze at him with concern. "Are you okay Tavros?" She asked softly.

"Uh, o-oh yeah, just fine," He didn't want to worry his new friend. He couldn't just destroy Vriska's reputation like that. He had it hard after the accident, but Vriska was treated terribly. Though he hadn't exactly been well liked, causing someone to go crippled made the majority of the old student body look at her in disgust. She had moved, hadn't she?

What a coincidence.

"Just, um, y-you know, spaced out for a bit." He forced a smile, looking Nepeta in the eyes. A shrill bell sounded in the hallways, and they began to empty. She smiled back.

"Okay! How about we go to class together?" She grabbed the handles to his wheelchair and pushed him to their next class, babbling on and on about whatever came to her mind. It made him smile, to see someone so happy. He wished he could go back to being happy.

…

The capricious boy stared at his best friend, in a daze. "Woah, dude, everything's all… motherfucking miracles bro." He fingered his messy curls, slumping forward, causing said best friend to catch him before he fell out of the car.

"Ugh you fucking stoned douchebag, how high are you?! Course you'll just leave me with the fucking clean up job, but you never fucking consider me will you shit head?" He grumbled angrily, pulling the tall and lanky teen out of the stained car seat and onto his feet, "Fuck, why are you so heavy? You're basically a twig! I can see you fucking ribs sometimes." Gamzee wasn't even listening; he was staring at a bird in a tree sitting in the parking lot. And the noise it was making was motherfucking euphonious.

"Hey that little winged motherfucker's saying hello Karbro," He drawls, a dopey smile spreading on his thin lips as he hung onto Karkat's smaller body so he wouldn't fall. He still hadn't found his land legs. Karkat pulled him through the parking lot, grumbling curses under his breath as they absconded into the warmer brick building after the bell rang. "Oh great now we're late for fucking class, way to go." He pushed Gamzee off of him, who caught his balance and stood tall even when slouching.

"Go to fucking class Gamzee… I'll come get you after. It's over by the water fountain, remember?" His voice dropped into an almost motherly tone, turning Gamzee in the right direction and pushing. Karkat was a short motherfucker, with messy dark brown hair and tired dark bags under his dark brown eyes. And he was pretty much angry at everything. But he cared. At least Gamzee hoped so. He heard Karkat mutter a soft 'Bye' and the sound of feet hitting the ground, so he lumbered towards the direction he was pointed.

He clumsily pushed open the door, which let out a groan of protest. His eyes widened as if he wasn't expecting it, even if he had opened this door thousands of times before. The tired looking teacher turned over to him, "Late again Gamzee?" He asked; wincing when he saw the lethargic clown faced boy once again. It wasn't an unusual reaction.

"It would seem so, motherfucker." Gamzee stated, voice slurring as he looked at the colors on the posters in the room. Some students looked at him and didn't even bother hiding their amusement; others just looked at him in annoyance.

The teacher sighed; he had given up trying to get Gamzee to stop using his crude language in the classroom, "Go sit down." He muttered, waving him off and turning to drone about whatever he had been talking about prior.

Gamzee went to sit down at his usual table, only to find the same adorable motherfucker from a few days ago sitting in the spot next to him. His grin widened as he fell down into his chair. He didn't even realize the boy was in a wheelchair.

The smaller boy offered a weak smile back, blush flooding his cheeks as he looked back at his papers, doodling a picture of a cute little bull with wings.

…

Vriska Serket walked the halls, head held high and her snarky signature smirk slapped across her thin lips, cat like blue eyes full of mischief. Everyone knew not to mess with her. She could be very cruel when she wanted. She made her way to her lunch table, full of people who were lucky enough to talk to her. That cat girl who was always pairing people up, and her perpetually sweaty strong companion, the angry short boy with a knack for curses, the blind girl with the scarlet red glasses and the witch cackle for a laugh, the nerd with the 3D glasses and a lisp, his death obsessed girlfriend, the stoner clown, that fashion crazy woman who had a thing for chainsaws and meddling, the bubbly fish girl and that forever alone hipster.

But there was an addition to their table today.

Cat-girl was talking to him, and stoner clown was staring at him from the other side of the table.

He was in a wheelchair.

He had a chocolate brown Mohawk.

And when his large, amber eyes met her cerulean blue, she froze, snarky grin falling into a horrified gaping mouth, the regret and guilt flooding into her mind, forcing her to relive what she had done- sending her best friend/reluctant rival off a crumbling cliff and into the air.

She remembered when she first saw him, a small boy with shaggy brown curtaining his large, fawn eyes, hiding behind his father's leg and looking around the kindergarten classroom, scared and intimidated. The other students had ignored him. When he had tried to build a castle out of building blocks, her foot kicked it over, sending the blocks crumbling onto the ground. She had looked down at him through her large glasses, issuing a challenge.

His expression had turned concerned when he saw her face, asking what happened in a timid, stutter laced voice, and it was so soft, like downy feathers and clouds. His eyes had looked so worried, so genuinely worried, that she froze to wonder if she had heard him right. No one ever cared about her; especially not her mother, who was the reason of the bruise on her forehead hidden by her bangs.

She decided then and there she wouldn't let him go. She needed someone to care. She forced him to play with her during recess and talked to him often, ridiculing and complimenting and bullying and encouraging. She hated him but loved him. She hated how he was always so quick to forgive her (_I don't deserve it!_), how he was always to so happy, so optimistic when she couldn't be.

But she loved how he smiled for her and tried his hardest to make her proud of him (_It never succeeded._), how his voice slowly became more confident and lacked its usual stutters and fumbles when they talked about how much he wanted to fly and his secret love of Peter Pan and how he used played Pokemon by himself in the late hours of the night with his dad.

He was always so worried when a new bruise of scratch appeared on her body but she shook him off, not wanting to look vulnerable or weak, with her mother it only got her more bruises. Her mother was a bad memory; the scars she left were in Vriska's mind as well as on her body.

The day she led him to that crumbling cliff, they were twelve years old, it had been an incredibly shitty day for her. Her mother had been more abusive than usual, her grades were slipping and she was just so angry. So she pushed him off the cliff, why shouldn't he suffer with her?

It wasn't until she saw him lying twisted on the rocky ground below, blood pooling on his sides, looking so broken and pitiful, staring at her with his big brown eyes asking her what he had done, that she realized she had just broke the only person who ever cared about her really, that now he probably hated her in a way she didn't want him to. So she backed up and fled the scene, leaving him for dead.

She had ran.

She had gone to see him in that too-white hospital room with the wilting flowers he wouldn't throw away, spotted the missing legs, spotting his miserable expression. She became afraid of showing her weakness, her regret; she refused to do it, even for the sake of apologizing to him face to face. At the sight of his broken body, she wanted to cry, but she held it in with her shark grin.

And then she ran.

When she was moved away from that terrible town in Arizona, where her mother abused her and her classmates hated her and her best friend/enemy/crush couldn't even look at her without looking like he wanted to cry, to her father's place in Washington, she never expected to see him again.

But the paraplegic was staring at her, with the same anger and sadness and questions in his moon eyes, and she didn't want to face him.

So for the third time in her life, she ran.

…

_Yes Vriska's in this I just needed you to know her better for this story and I'm pretty sure the majority of the characters here will get their own little sections at least once in this whole thing. I hope you liked it._


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